The Sniper's Beginning
by Immortalwolf-Aron
Summary: Jason Hastings was kidnapped three years ago. In 2010, he has returned to his home town of Seattle, and expects only a slight change, but now no one remembers who he is. The last person he expected to ever meet, knows who he is. What secrets does he hold?


Prologue: March 29, 2006

Even this could not compare to the abuses that Jason had long ago taken from his alcoholic mother. The blows had fallen hard and quick, the easiest way to do it. This, this long reigning, slow torture was designed to kill him slowly. He thought back now to the intense, nine weeks of training that he'd just gone through. Then he'd thought that he was going through hell, now he knew that was like fourth grade physical education, incredibly easy and relatively insignificant.

How he wished that, when he was young, that he had had the sense to listen to his brother, "Don't get into the military. It only alienates you from the rest of the world and gets you into trouble that lasts beyond the honorable discharge." Those words echoed through his mind, bitterly ironic to him now.

The soft cries of agony that fall from his lips represent the culmination of years of both restraint and temperament to the torture. Despite himself, a sick, twisted part of his mind enjoyed it, knowing that the bitch would be killed at the end of it all. Her soft skin brushed over his entire body, making his pulse race, pounding so fiercely in his chest, that he thought it would burst free from its prison. She jerked her hand sharply, and he cried out, both agony and a perverse sense of pleasure washed through him.

'Fuck.' He thought. The pain spiked as she leaned over him, trying to force him in. He fought, twisting away from the sticky weight of her breasts on his chest. But alas, he could not fight what his mind instructed his body to do; in a moment she would sigh with deep pleasure, roll off of him, and say, "There, that wasn't so hard was it?" He had survived through her sick, perverted tortures now that he knew to put up a minute bit of his effort into pleasing her.

But no, this time was different: she pushed herself deeper and harder, eyes bright with cruel happiness. She laid her head on his shoulder, bringing a hand up to caress his face. Smiling viciously, Jason reached out with his teeth, and bit down on her hand, hard. Hard enough he could hear the bones splinter and crack under his molars. He could taste blood where his canines had deeply punctured her skin.

She screamed and stood up, spitting in his face, throwing a black handkerchief in his face. Smiling, he sat up and pulled on his clothes quickly, knowing he had only minutes before she came back with another one to get him. The whore was still standing in the doorway, breathing hard. As Jason stood, she slapped him across the face. Shaking his head, he landed a heavy uppercut to her jaw. The fight was on, and he knew that he wouldn't win easily.

Kicking out, she caught him in the shin, bruising it with her heel. He clipped her in the shoulder with his fist, and the close contact earned him a black eye. Stepping back to catch his balance, he remembered the karate training he had received when he was young.

Smiling, he dropped down as if he was winded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her soften a bit, kneeling down beside him. "Are you alright? I'm sorry that I started the fight. Will you forgive me?"

Straightening up, he slammed three fingers into her throat, stopping her pulse instantly.

He folded the handkerchief into his pocket, wondering where she'd gotten it from. "No, I won't."

'All well.' Jason thought quietly. 'She's departed, and I may be able to get out of this hell-hole without getting Tasered; I expect that I can find my shit so I can leave. The group is probably wondering where the hell I am; they've probably already screwed themselves out by now.'

Jason jogged though the door, heading down the dimly light corridor towards where he knew that he had hidden a stash of essential supplies. Ducking behind a large waste container, he sighed with relief as he saw the edge of his pack sticking out ever so slightly from the corner of a blanket. He also saw the edge of his sniper rifle, an FN SCAR-H, custom-made.

It happened to be a standard issue for SOCOM, or Special Operations Command, but it had been updated with the latest improvements: the clip was larger, holding ten rounds instead of the usual five; the barrel was free-floating, but had been sunken in only 6 cm. to hold the shock of its recoil.

A built-in, automatic silencer reduced noise by nearly 45 percent. Being so quiet, the only thing left that they had to really think about was the weight and balance. This issue was easily taken care of by using a plastic laminate stock, and balancing out the barrel by punching holes into the firing tip. The metal had also been changed to adamant, an incredibly lightweight metal that seemed to resemble a cross between steel and aluminum. The scope had been made with the same metal, and had an impressive zooming range of 2000 meters. With mil dot technology, wind compensation gauge, and improved day/night vision switch, it added quite an advantage to the renowned system.

By doing both those things, the weight had bee reduced from its original 3.73 kg to 1.19 kg; a difference of two pounds and nine ounces.

He noticed how nice it felt to have the pack and rifle on his back again, the weight not even close to being too much, even though his pack weighed a good thirty-five pounds. He raced down the corridor, seeing a door only a few yards ahead of him.

He heard the whip before he felt it: whistling down through the air to crack over his left shoulder blade. The tip was metal, slicing deep into his shoulder and ripping off a jagged line of skin as it was wrenched from his skin on the way back.

Screaming in agony, Jason pulled his rifle from his shoulder and fired, hearing the deathly _thud _as it slammed into the chest of just one of the whores who had tortured him for so long. He smiled savagely; the deepest, most twisted part of him enjoying the pain he felt searing through his arm and shoulder.

He ducked inside the door, and groaned in frustration as it revealed a simple broom closet. Sprinting down the hallway again, he heard footsteps behind him, closing in. Pushing himself faster, a sharp turn threw his purser off momentarily until a dead end had Jason cornered, with his back against the wall. A short squat man, with a pasty face and white, unseeing eyes pointed a knife at his heart.

Suddenly, Jason was six years old again, looking upon the dead bodies of both his parents from behind the chair in the drawing room. He remembered the face well, although then the man had been much younger, with clear grey eyes. The threatening voice that had warned him away, '"_Don't look little Jason, you don't need to see this. You mommy and daddy have been bad, and need to be warned against the bad habits they have. They have been bad, unlike you; you are just a poor helpless angel . . ."_ _The man had reached out, and tenderly stroked his cheek, and turned him around before he threw the knife, killing his mother first. _

_His father died slowly, being tortured for the information that Markus had so desperately sought then. And after it was done, Jason had screamed out in anguish. Markus turned, advancing with the knife, angry that the little boy had disobeyed his gentle command. What had been a scream of grief and shock turned into one of agony as the knife was drawn across his chest . . . No one heard it.'_

"No." he called, halting the man's hand, which was bouncing up and down, getting ready to throw the knife. "I am not a helpless little boy any more; I am a man of our country's defense against sick, twisted hags like you. Do you remember how I disregarded you order, then again so gentle? If you try to warn me away, I shall disregard you again, and your 'life' shall cease to be."

Markus sneered, laughing. "Oh, Markus thought for sure that he had ended it there, that very night. He is quite impressed that you survived for one so young, so young still, compared to him. He hopes that you shall enjoy what life you have left, because even though he has grown old, he still remains a top knife-man."

Jason had to laugh, despite himself; Markus had issues referring to his personage in the third-person, and that caused some slight problems. He got distracted easily, and was a smooth target.

Jason smiled as the man suddenly frowned; "Where was I? I must have . . ." he muttered something under his breath about the darkness claiming his mind for a moment. Unbeknownst to Markus, the darkness would claim more that just his thoughts. There, in the dim light of the hallway, the true side of Yasha Alexi Morgenstern was revealed as he avenged the deaths of both his parents, and of his soul.

_Three years later: _

Jason Harding was walking the bright streets of Seattle, Washington. Today happened to be a good day, with a clear blue sky, and a slight breeze off the coast. It was cool, but he wore only a thin, blue, collared shirt with his pack slung over his shoulder. It happened to be drawing attention from the people he passed, as well as from the police, in the incident of the brief argument over his sniper rifle.

He showed them his ID and they let him go, relieved to have a soldier patrolling the streets on casual business. Jason didn't mind, but he wished that he could return to the base and retrieve his uniform. He had no transport, and did not wish to ask for a ride. If he could not get out there, he would have to wait until the 'squad' got wind of his long awaited return.

He'd been back inside city walls for almost four years, but the missing person photos hadn't all been taken down yet. Special Ops group 9, he knew, had seen him walk the streets but had not recognized his face. It wasn't surprising taking that, in the past three and half years, he had changed in enormous ways; and it wasn't just his physical appearance: tall, well built, light brown hair, blue eyes, bright smile, the face of so long ago pasted on billboards.

Now the difference was stunning: still tall, anorexically thin, white-blonde hair, and, like his smile, his eyes had darkened. Stress and the lack of sleep gave him dark circles underneath his eyes and paled his complexion. Jason had been born with dark skin, but not matter how much sun he'd gotten over the past years, the natural color had only returned fractionally.

Old friends who had been overjoyed to see him alive, fell away from him once they heard his story, and all the hell he'd been through. He had been a loner even when he was young, so he didn't mind. The only thing that truly bugged him, even in the slightest bit, was the fact that even his sister had not remembered who he was and had sent him from her home with an angry tongue.

Walking along the pier alone, all that Jason could do was stare at the angry sea, the sky above now black with storm clouds. Behind him, he suddenly heard a horn honk. Looking back, he saw the camouflaged jeep come to a stop and someone jump out. "Hey! What are you doing out here? We've been looking everywhere for you after we heard you were alive."

He stopped and slid his gun form his shoulder as the man advanced. He had dark red, short cropped hair and bright green eyes. Short and thin, he didn't seem to pose much of a threat to the taller, thicker built Jason. The man held up his hands and came no further.

"You don't recognize me Jason? I'm Alex Pierz, remember? Second in command, we fought in Iraq, 2006?"

He backed up a bit, holding his gun steady. With not much of an idea who he was, there wasn't much to make the memories click in his head. Seeing a glimpse of a tattoo on the inside of Pierz's arm, he said, "Hold out your left arm."

Alex held out his arm and said quietly, "Hold out yours."

Jason slowly held out his arm; the blue crescent moon on their palms and the line of runes on the inside of their forearms were the same. Looking closely, he suddenly recognized the words that were spelled out there, 'brothers in blood, forever we stand.'

He gasped as the memory came back to him: it was the summer just after they had gotten home from a two-year tour of duty in Iraq and they were closer than brothers. They had been friends since the second-grade and the experience of war had drawn them even closer. Walking along the harbors edge, Alex had remembered the quote from a book that he'd received a few years ago. They were walking past a tattoo parlor, and the idea had struck both of them at the same time. They got the tattoos that day, and had held true to the motto ever since.

"My God, it is you!" Jason exclaimed in surprise. "I'm sorry that I didn't recognize you right away." He slung his gun back over his shoulder and noticed that someone was waving to him from the front seat of the jeep. "Who's with you?"

"Oh that's just Andrew. But that's okay. We almost passed you up for a different person. The dye job wore off." Alex noted, pointing at his bleach blonde hair. Jason laughed, "Yeah, I know. I figured that would be the one thing that would throw you guys off just a bit."

"Yes, that and the fact that you've become anorexic; you should eat more than just rabbit food, you know." Alex smiled at him. "Come on, lets get back to the base and we can get a hot meal. This storm is going to be a nasty on once it hits, and I wouldn't put it past Mother Nature to leave it here for a few days."

Jason shrugged a bit, "Alright, let's go. I'm not sure that Landing will believe anything any one of us tries to tell him, though."

Jason rethought this and said quietly, "Well, the onlt thing that I am actually certain of, is that he will be just himself, nothing more, nothing less."

Alex laughed, "Alright then, let's go meet father."


End file.
